


The Mask Does Not Make the Man

by Mynameisdoubleg



Category: BattleTech: MechWarrior, Classic Battletech (Tabletop RPG)
Genre: BattleTech - Freeform, Capellan, ComStar, Davion, F/M, Federated Suns, Liao - Freeform, Mechwarrior - Freeform, Terra - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27589361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mynameisdoubleg/pseuds/Mynameisdoubleg
Summary: From the edge of the Periphery, to the center of the Inner Sphere, pirate and freelance MechWarrior Dmitri Dyubichev finds his circumstances have changed dramatically. He can't afford to relax just now however, for he's about to face his most dangerous and deadly challenge yet: A fancy dress party.
Kudos: 1





	The Mask Does Not Make the Man

Shanghai  
Terra  
31 December 3027

After months in transit, Dmitri Dyubichev stepped blinking into the arrival lobby feeling soul-stretched, a ghost in another man’s body. When his eyes adjusted to the glare, the first thing he saw was her.  
She walked up to him and wordlessly took his hand and he followed. What else could he do? The trip passed in a blur. There was a limousine, he vaguely recalled, something sleek and black that swam like a shark through the night traffic and the city’s shoals of neon and glitter. Then a glass-sided elevator, lifting them higher, impossibly high over the glowworm lights of the city.  
They fell into her suite just as the first fireworks began to burst and he clung to her like a man drowning.

Dmitri awoke to satin sheets and soft pillows and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over a forest of skyscrapers. The sun—THE sun, he realized, the original—was still low in the sky, warming the undersides of grey clouds and the sides of the buildings with a tangerine glow. She stood at the window, dressed in a short silk nightgown, and turned and smiled when she heard him move.  
“Good morning,” she said.  
“I’ve had worse,” he admitted. “You know, I’m here on a contract. Supposed to have been met at the spaceport.”  
“You were,” she turned away from the window, and walked to a small night table, picking up a small compad.  
“Ah ha. You know, I thought it was weird, hiring a dispossessed MechWarrior from the ass end of the Sphere,” he propped himself up on his elbows, watching her move. There was a new tattoo of a winged lion on her right shoulder, but otherwise she was as he remembered her, when she was a Magistracy spy and he was a disgraced soldier. On Larsha. A year and a lifetime ago. “A lot of money to pay for, you know.” He jerked a thumb at his undressed self.  
“Don’t flatter yourself Dmitri,” she stood over the bed, half smile on her face. “You’re good, but not that good.” She handed him the compad.  
“What’s this?” he asked, taking the pad but not looking at it.  
“The contract,” she replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. “This is new,” she said, and lightly traced a scar on his chest.  
“A lot can happen in a year, you know? Go to interesting places, meet interesting people, try not to let them murder you,” he gently caught her hand, moving it away from the scar. “Which is why I hesitate now. How can I trust you? After Larsha. I don’t even know your real name. Not Lilith, I’ll bet.”  
“No, not Lilith,” she agreed. “Lilith played her part. We put away one mask and don another: MechWarrior, pirate, mercenary. Like putting on a change of clothes. And just like that, a dishonest spy becomes a respectable diplomat.”  
“It wasn’t just a part to me.”  
She retrieved her hand from his grasp and tapped him on the nose with her index finger. “Don’t be petulant, Dmitri. Everyone in this life wants something. Money, fame, honor, love—”  
“Breakfast?”  
She smiled. “Some wants are more easily met that others, agreed. Look, I’ll see about breakfast, you just read the file, then make your decision. That’s all I ask.”  
She stood smoothly from the bed, and began to walk to the bedroom doors.  
“Wait,” he called, and she turned, looking at him expectantly. “What do I call you now?”  
“Lilith will do. It’s as good a name as any.”  
“OK then. Lilith. You know I’m not much of a diplomat,” he turned the compad over and over in his hands thoughtfully. “Don’t see how I can help you sign treaties or negotiate trade.”  
“I’m afraid it’s something much more dangerous than that,” she said.  
“Oh?”  
“I want you to come to a fancy-dress party.”

Lilith closed the door behind her. Dmitri thumbed the compad. It showed an image of a middle-aged man with a round face and thinning brown hair, dressed in a white coat. The face was vaguely familiar. The text underneath identified him as Doctor Raymond Shaw, former citizen of the Capellan Confederation, noted expert in the fields of applied behavior analysis and cognitive behavioral therapy.  
Dmitri scrolled through Shaw’s biography. Birth and education on Sarna, graduation, assignment to a research hospital on Sian. Articles published: “Behavioral Mimicry and Personal Identity,” “Overcoming Heautoscopy in Radical Personality Modification Cases.” Breakthrough research, top of his field. Awards and honors. Sighting on Stein’s Folly during the Liao occupation.  
Disappearance during the Davion counterattack.  
Dmitri put down the compad. Ah. Ha, he thought.  
“Breakfast is on its way.” Lilith returned, and stood at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips. She nodded at the compad. “Well, what do you think?”  
“Stein’s Folly, eh?” he said, and she nodded, slowly. “Alright, let’s hear the rest of it.”  
“We believe there was an attempt to kidnap and Hanse Davion and replace him with an imposter almost three years ago,” she began. “An attempt instigated by Maximillian Liao, and your old mentor, Pavel Ridzik. Originating on Stein’s Folly, led by Doctor Shaw.”  
“I remember the doctor,” he admitted. “Met him a couple of times when I was on Ridzik’s staff. Don’t see how that helps, though.”  
“Obviously, the ability to abduct and replace an interstellar ruler undetected has the Magistracy Intelligence Ministry somewhat, shall we say, agitated,” she went on. “Though ‘scared witless’ would be more accurate. We want to know how it was done, and what can be done to detect or prevent a similar attempt.”  
He lay back on the plump pillows, hands behind his head. “And this is your interrogation, is it? I always pictured hot pokers and having your fingernails pulled, but I’m not even tied up,” he held up his wrists to demonstrate. “Unless that comes later?”  
“Like I said: Not that good, Dmitri.”  
“Alright, alright, not sure how much more my ego can take,” he sighed. “So, I’ve met the good doctor. No idea where he is now, I’m afraid.”  
“But we do. We’ve tracked him here. To Terra. Different face, calls himself Frank Gregory now, but we’re sure it’s him. Working for a company called Master Medical Management, but since that company didn’t exist until a month ago, it’s almost undoubtedly a front. For who we’re not sure. And tonight, the consulates and corporations of the interstellar powers are having their New Year’s Party here.”  
Lilith retrieved the compad, tapped open a new page and handed it back to him.  
It showed a huge building, designed to mimic the shape of the Cameron star, the symbol of the old Star League: a central hall flanked by two wings, one short, one long, built of marble and glass, each composed of progressively smaller floors, rising to meet a central pyramidal tower dozens of stories high. The entrance was a mass of silver-veined obsidian, and was reached by a narrow silver causeway over a wide blue pool.  
Lilith leaned forward. “The Cameron Hotel. This is where you come in, Dmitri. If he’s here, he’ll be there. You were one of the last people to see him, before he disappeared three years ago. Come with me to the party, help me find him, convince him to talk to us.”  
“Talk?”  
“Talk,” Lilith repeated, firmly. “Just talk. We’re not the Capellans or the Combine. I can be very persuasive.”  
“I noticed.” He lay a while, looking up at the suite ceiling, but it was blank and featureless and gave him no answers. “Payment?” he asked at last, knowing he’d already agreed.  
“Whatever you want, within reason. A BattleMech? We have a few on Solaris. It could be arranged.”  
“A BattleMech. I must be crazy,” he shook his head, more at himself than anything else. “Alright. Yes. Yes, I’ll try to help you find him. Though, just for the record, I would’ve probably said yes even without the seduction.”  
“Oh, I know,” she giggled a little. “That was just a little reward for myself.”  
Dmitri laughed at that. “I’m no lawyer, but I think the employer is supposed to pay the worker, not vice versa.” He patted the sheets beside him. “Though, we could rectify that.”  
“For the last time: Not. That. Good. Dmitri,” she stopped, and a crooked smile appeared. She lifted the hem of her nightgown and pulled it over her head, then climbed onto the bed and into his arms. “But still pretty good.”

They sat in the back of the limousine as it glided through the city. Lilith was dressed in a backless, green satin oriental dress, with golden thread worked into delicate whorls of triangular flowers and leaves. Dmitri wore a grey and red jacket, with the emblem of a slavering wolf on each cuff, and a false beard that already itched.  
“It’s a tradition among the diplomatic corps here,” Lilith had explained. “Everyone goes dressed as someone famous. This year, I’m Candace Liao.”  
“Not Natasha Kerensky?”  
“I made that mistake last year,” she’d rolled her eyes. “You don’t know diplomat’s wives. Half the women tonight will be dressed as Kerensky.” She’d looked at him sidelong. “Though if I’d know that was your thing…”  
He’d shaken his head, admiring her dress. “You know, I suddenly feel my old Liaoist sympathies returning.”  
“I’ll bet,” she’d grinned, and handed him the jacket.  
“And who am I?”  
“Jaime Wolf,” she said, and laughed at his confusion. “My little joke. Read the gossip columns.”  
In the back of the limousine, Dmitri watched his reflection in the window, fighting the urge to scratch.  
“You haven’t changed much. On the outside,” said Lilith from the seat beside him. “Less melancholy though, but more. I don’t know. Distant, maybe?”  
“It’s like the ‘Ship of Theseus’ riddle isn’t it?” he mused. “If I change only a little at a time, am I still me after everything about me has changed? You, on the other hand, haven’t changed at all. The tattoo is new though. A griffin?”  
“A lamassu.”  
“Gesundheit.”  
She punched his shoulder playfully. “Lamassu. It’s an ancient Mesopotamian protective spirit.”  
“You believe in spirits?”  
Lilith considered that a moment. “I believe in memory,” she said at last. “I believe in patterns. I believe in the stories we tell each other. I think the key to happiness is remembering the patterns.”  
A memory stirred. “Wasn’t Larsha a city in Mesopotamia?”  
She nodded. “Clever boy.”  
“I never knew Larsha meant anything to you. Ah, what are we, what is this?” he searched her face. “Is this one of your patterns? One of your stories? Irene Adler to my Sherlock Holmes?”  
“Your Holmes,” she repeated, deadpan, one eyebrow arched.  
“My Watson?”  
“Your analogy needs work,” she advised.  
“But seriously. I should have gone with you, back then, on Larsha. I should have, well,” he blinked away the memories, and snorted at himself. “Ah, I should have done lots of things. But mostly, I should have gone with you.”  
“You’re here now,” she said simply, patted his hand and pointed out the window. “And here we are.”

The ballroom inside the Cameron Hotel dripped with glass, gold and sophistication. Dmitri and Lilith were scanned through security by burly security guards whose tuxedoes bulged suspiciously below their armpits. The crowd eddied and swirled around long tables laden with food. Harried waiters kept the alcohol and conversation flowing. The party spilled out onto the adjoining garden, with its maze of candlelit paths, gazebos and fountains.  
Lilith went to air-kiss a pair of Taurian officials dressed as Katrina and Nondi Steiner. Left to his own devices, Dmitri circulated about the room, floating from group to group on effervescent bubbles of conversation and champagne humor.  
“You seen Morgan Kell around?” asked one of the many Natasha Kerenskys.  
“No, the man’s impossible to find sometimes,” complained a Bronwen Rafsani.  
Dmitri passed a trio of Ardan Sorteks.  
“Saw someone doing a great Thomas Marik,” said one.  
“That was probably Thomas Marik,” replied the second.  
“Yeah, yeah, exactly. Totally like him.”  
“No, I mean that Thomas Marik was Thomas Marik.”  
“That’s what I’m saying. Pitch-perfect imitation.”  
An elderly man dressed as Janos Marik suddenly offered Dmitri a drink, patting him on the shoulder. “Damn sorry about your brother Joshua and that business on New Delos, eh Jaime,” he joked.  
Dmitri took the offered cocktail. “Right you are, Janos. My sympathies about your son, Duggan.”  
Janos looked confused, “But he’s still alive.”  
“Exactly, old boy, exactly,” Dmitri clinked their glasses and tossed his back.  
“Hey Jaime,” shouted a stout, bald man with Theodore Kurita’s moustache. “Drinking with the enemy?”  
Dmitri raised his glass. “You know what I always say: keep your friends close, and your vodka closer.”  
They were joined by a rather unsteady man in a Combine uniform and an ill-fitting black wig dyed with streaks of silver at the top and sides. “Descended from Vice Admiral Takeo Kurita, my arse,” he was slurring. “That was over 1,000 crackin’ years ago. That’s 40 crackin’ generations.”  
“Crackin’?” Dmitri whispered to Janos.  
“Combine profanity,” Janos murmured. “The sound of the dragon’s egg breaking. Short for frackencrack.”  
“Count your ancestors. Two parents, four grandparents. Doubles each generation, right?” The drunk leaned in very close. “Guess how many ancestors you had 40 generations ago?”  
“I’d say roughly a lot,” offered Dmitri.  
“Crackin’ right,” the man swayed back. “About 8 trillion, that’s how many. Only, there was only 2 billion people alive then so you know what? We’re all descended from crackin’ Vice crackin’ Admiral crackin’ Kurita, a thousand times over. I’m a Kurita, you’re a Kurita, hell even the waiter’s a crackin’ Kurita,” he jabbed a finger unsteadily at a drinks-laden staff.  
“I am?” the waiter asked, looking around bewildered.  
“Yes. No. Not the point,” the drunk went on. “Every crackin’ human alive today is descended from crackin’ Takeo Kurita. This fad for tribalism is a crock. Leonard Kurita? Blaine Kurita? Think they were worried about some samurai grand-daddy?”  
Janos nodded. “We are not shaped by our ancestors based on their past,” he offered airily. “We shape them based on our present.”  
“Crackin’ right.” The Kurita-clad man raised a glass in toast, realized his was empty, and staggered off in search of more alcohol.  
“Doesn’t seem terribly keen on House Kurita,” observed Dmitri.  
“Pity. He’s the Draconis Combine scientific attaché,” said Lilith, sidling up behind Dmitri and resting her hand on the small of his back. “Enjoying yourself?”  
“Quite,” he smiled. “Just saw the Sortek triplets, Janos, Theodore and Takashi, and I’ve been propositioned by at least four Natasha Kerenskys already.”  
“Say yes to all four and claim you got confused,” she advised. “Anyway, don’t enjoy yourself too much. I need you more or less vertical, at least until we can find our friend.”  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dmitri said amiably, grabbing a glass of something clear and fizzy from a passing waiter and downing it in a gulp.  
Lilith sighed and rolled her eyes. “Keep looking. Must make nice with the Capellan delegation.”  
As she walked away, Dmitri called after her, “Bonnie to my Clyde?”  
She half-turned. “Better. But gunned down by the police. Bad omen. Keep thinking.”  
Left alone again, Dmitri found himself drawn into a group composed of a Duncan Marik, a Hanse Davion and a pair of twins both dressed as Rhonda Snord.  
“We’re wearing masks now, but we’re always wearing masks, you know?” Duncan was declaiming loudly to the Rhondas. “The way you are around your family is different from the way you are around your friends, your co-workers, strangers, enemies. There is no ‘real’ you. It’s all just different masks.”  
“All identity is illusory?” Dmitri asked.  
“Absolutely,” Duncan nodded vigorously. “Who you are is situational, you know? It’s just a story you tell yourself.”  
“So if I told myself I was the First Prince of the Federated Suns?” Dmitri asked. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hanse Davion give a sudden start. Interesting.  
“Okay, well, obviously in order to become Prince there’s genetics—”  
“What if you genuinely believed you were the Prince?” Hanse broke in. “And you were an able ruler? Would the average citizen even know the difference?”  
And now that Dmitri heard his voice, it was obvious.  
“Maybe not, but no matter how good a ruler he was, there would be a revolt if anyone found out,” countered Duncan. “It matters because people think it matters.”  
“So who you are is not so much a story you tell yourself, but a story others tell you,” Dmitri suggested.  
“Well put,” agreed Hanse.  
Leaving them to their philosophizing, Dmitri pushed through the crowd and found Lilith. Smiling his apologies to another pair of Natasha Kerenskys, he guided her to a far corner. “Success, my Duchess,” he whispered dramatically.  
“And?” she asked expectantly. “Where’s Doctor Shaw, or Gregory, or whatever his name is now?”  
“It appears our friend is not without a sense of humor,” Dmitri nodded in the direction of his recent conversation partners. “He’s here as Hanse Davion.”  
Lilith patted his cheek. “Well done. I knew I liked you for a reason.”  
“Other than gullibility?”  
“Well mostly that, but not only.” She chewed her lip thoughtfully a moment. “Too public if I approach him directly. There’s a fountain at the south end of the gardens, a little more private. Convince him to take a walk, I’ll meet you there.”  
“The fountain, right, no problem,” Dmitri nodded. “Easiest BattleMech I’ve ever earned. Only BattleMech I’ve ever earned, but still.” He straightened his jacket. “Cleopatra to my Caesar?”  
She cocked her head. “Cleopatra is sweet, death by poison less so. You’re getting there, though.”  
Dmitri snagged a pair of champagne flutes from a waiter and strolled over to find Shaw-as-Hanse-Davion waiting at the bar. Tried to remember what name the man was using now. So many identities. “Doctor Gregory?” he called, offering a glass of champagne. “Fascinating insights on the nature of personality back there.”  
“Oh? Are you in the field?” Shaw asked with a smile, taking the glass. “I don’t think I recognize…”  
Dmitri shook his head, self-deprecatingly. “Alas, no. My experience with the psychology of alternate identities has been somewhat circumstantial. But a fascinating subject. Would love to hear more. Perhaps outdoors where it’s a little less stuffy?” He waved in the direction of the gardens.  
As they walked out the ballroom, one of the waiters bumped into Dmitri. Instead of apologizing, the man gave Dmitri a hard stare as he and Shaw walked past, down one of the garden paths.  
They strolled a few minutes, sipping champagne, down paths lined with tall hedges, Dmitri struggling to make interesting-sounding noises as Shaw spoke at length of his work. A waiter passed them, coming the other way. The same waiter who’d bumped into him, he noted.  
“Doctor Shaw,” a voice said behind them.  
The waiter. Dmitri saw shock on Shaw’s face, hearing his real name. Dmitri started to turn. There was a high-pitched whine from somewhere behind him and he felt like a thousand nails were being pounded into his head.

When he awoke, Dmitri found himself stretched out on a concrete floor, feeling as though the worst hangover in his life had detonated a nuclear bomb in his skull for the entertainment of a herd of excitable elephants. The bright fluorescent lights made his eyeballs hurt just that little bit more than the rest of his body. Sonic stunners should be against the Ares Conventions, he thought.  
He’d lost the false beard somewhere though, so it wasn’t all bad news.  
Dmitri blinked until his eyes adjusted, and saw he was in one of the hotel’s storage rooms, with stacks of boxes on one side and doors at either end. Eight hotel staff gathered around a chair in the center, in which Raymond Shaw was sitting. There were waiters in bowties and black vests, a red-coated valet, two cooks, a porter and a manager holding a communicator to his ear. They carried a motley array of needlers, slug throwers and laser pistols.  
“Alright gentlemen, our ride has just arrived,” announced the manager, sliding the communicator back into his inside jacket pocket. “Doctor Shaw, you will be in front with me, the rest of you behind. Walk nice and slow. Baz, Kyle, wait one minute before following us, make sure we aren’t tailed.”  
The manager took one of Shaw’s armpits, a cook the other, and they hauled him to his feet. They began marching him towards one of the doors. The one called Baz, dressed as a valet, pointed at Dmitri. “Major, what about him?” he asked the manager.  
“Anyone know who he is?”  
“Nobody. A guest. Jaime Wolf,” one of the waiters laughed humorlessly.  
“Don’t mind me,” Dmitri urged, slowly sitting up. “I can find my own way back.”  
“No witnesses,” snapped the Major. “Kill him.” The men filed out the door.  
The valet looked at the porter, then shrugged almost apologetically at Dmitri. Pulled a stubby needler pistol from his jacket. Walked slowly towards Dmitri.  
“You know,” Dmitri said plaintively. “I’ve about had it with this shit for one night.”  
The valet stood above him. Pistol aimed at Dmitri’s head.  
Dmitri twisted, legs scissoring. Hooked his foot behind the valet’s knee. Swept his feet out from under him. Lunged for the pistol as the man crashed down on the floor.  
The porter hesitated, pistol raised. Dmitri grappled for the valet’s gun but his grip was iron. Instead, Dmitri twisted the man’s elbow. Pulled down hard on the index finger over the trigger. The needler hissed like a snake. Compressed gas fired a cloud of razor-sharp flechettes right into the porter’s chest. The man was kicked off his feet. He fell in a bloody tangle of boxes and thrashed, gurgling and bubbling wetly.  
The valet punched at Dmitri’s throat with his free hand. Dmitri twisted to take the blow on his shoulder. Pain flared. Rammed his elbow into the man’s skull, once, twice. Slamming it against the floor. The grip on the needler went slack and Dmitri wrestled it away. Rolled on top of the valet. Pinned the man’s arms to the floor with his knees. Shot him, point-blank, in the face.  
Dmitri clambered, blood-splattered, to his feet, checked the needler’s clip, then went to the body of the porter and retrieved a heavy Sunbeam laser pistol. Tucked it into the back of his waistband. Shot the porter in the head too, just to make sure.  
He kicked open the door and found a narrow stairwell. He took the steps two at a time, came bursting through the door at the top out into a long hallway. One of the waiters stood by a door at the far end.  
The waiter’s eyes widened. He shouted. Brought up a gyrojet pistol.  
Dmitri turned his run into a forward roll, mini rockets screaming over his head. Dmitri came up firing, flechette gun spitting a wall of spikes down the hallway. The waiter jerked and spasmed. Tumbled backwards through the door.  
Dmitri followed. Into an underground parking lot. Thick concrete pillars. Rows and rows of sleek saloons, late-model sports coupes and faux-military jeeps. Barely ten meters from the door, the hotel staff were gathered around a jeep parked in the aisle, muscling Shaw into the back seat. As the parking lot door banged open and both Dmitri and the waiter’s body spilled out, some were already turning, reaching for their weapons.  
Dmitri sprinted to the side, dove across the hood of a white sedan, dropping down the far side as bullets cratered the concrete wall behind him. Crouched by the rear end, then came up firing.  
Exposed, huddled together in front of the jeep, they were easy targets. Two fell, one hit in the belly, the other in the throat. He fell back, gun shooting wildly into the ceiling.  
Dmitri ducked and ran behind the next car, a bulky jet-black van. He heard them running closer and knew they’d be trying to come around the end of the cars. Catch him without any cover. A cook skidded to a halt just past the end of the van’s bumper. Dmitri shot him in the face, then pivoted and blasted a porter off his feet.  
The last waiter emerged from behind the back of the jeep, holding an Imperator submachine gun. Walked forward, firing from the hip. Muzzle flashes like strobe lights.  
Dmitri threw himself flat. Window glass shattered, showering him with diamond fragments. He fired under the van’s body, at the waiter’s feet. Reduced the man’s shins to red ribbons. The waiter fell screaming to the concrete. Dmitri fired again and the screams cut short.  
The jeep’s engine roared to life.  
Dmitri saw the Major at the wheel. Shaw in the back. Dmitri aimed, squeezed the trigger again. Nothing. Empty. He tossed away the needler and pulled out the Sunbeam.  
The jeep’s tires squealed. Dmitri sprinted into the aisle, blocking its path. Held up the Sunbeam in both hands. Fired a shot just as the tires found traction on the concrete and the jeep leapt forward. Drilled a neat, round hole in the front glass, striking the Major’s shoulder.  
The jeep swerved wildly, skidding sideways. Slamming into Dmitri before it hurtled into a concrete pillar. He tried to roll with the impact, tumbling across the parking lot. Dmitri found himself face-down on the ground. Amazed he still had the Sunbeam. Heard footsteps. Rolled onto his back, bringing the gun up and aiming between his feet from where he lay.  
The Major stood three meters away. Face bloody, bruised, jacket shoulder still smoking from the laser fire. The left arm dangled. The right held a double-barreled Blazer laser rifle.  
“Should have minded your own business, Mister Wolf,” the Major said.  
“Doesn’t have to end this way.”  
“Look, Jaime, let’s be honest,” the Major shook his head. “When MIIO recruits deep cover agents, one of the things they look for is people who don’t give up just because someone says, ‘It doesn’t have to end this way.’”  
“Shame. All I wanted to do is talk to him.”  
“And I can tell by your accent you’re from Tikonov, so no guesses what you want to talk about. My regards to your Maskirovka friends, but you’re not getting him back.” He shifted the Blazer a little, aiming at Dmitri’s chest. “Oh Jaime, Natasha will be distraught.”  
“Which one?” asked Dmitri dryly, keeping the Sunbeam pointed at the Major’s head.  
“All of them, I suppose,” he smiled briefly. “Goodbye, Jaime.”  
A woman screamed. The Major glanced up. Dmitri fired. A flickering red pencil-line of light went through the bottom of the Major’s jaw and out the back of his skull. He toppled like a tree.  
Dmitri threw away the Sunbeam and fell back to the ground. Let himself start to feel the hurt. Pain in places he didn’t know if was possible to feel pain. He looked up. A green dress with gold leaves. “About time you showed up,” he told Lilith. “Only question: How?”  
“Tracer in the seam of your jacket,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind.”  
“I’ll let it slide, this once,” he winced, tried feebly to get up. Failed. “Really though. A scream?”  
“All I could think of,” she smiled sweetly. “Don’t get up just yet though. This is where things get interesting.”  
Tuxedoed security guards and uniformed police flooded the car park. Kept guns trained on the bodies of the MIIO agents. Shaw was helped from the accordioned jeep and stretchered away. The guards surrounded Lilith and Dmitri. A dozen against one, and yet they were the ones who looked intimidated, cowed by the woman coolly standing in the middle of the carnage.  
A white-robed ComStar Adept stormed up to her. “Consul Pfeiffer, what in Blake’s holy name is going on?” he bellowed. “If any harm has come to Doctor Shaw—”  
“Shaw? Not Gregory?” her cool tone stopped him cold.  
The Adept tried to regain his momentum. He jabbed at finger at Dmitri. “This man has—”  
“Has just foiled an attempt by foreign agents to abduct a leading scientist from a hotel your men were guarding,” Lilith interrupted. “I do believe he just saved your career. Adept.”  
Dmitri gave the Adept a magnanimous wave.  
Lilith’s mouth set in a thin line. “Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we Adept? We know you have Shaw. We’ll keep that to ourselves. As a gesture of friendship, between the Magistracy and ComStar. A similar gesture on your part might be wise. Favorable rates, etcetera. Because we are such good friends. And good friends keep each other’s secrets. Don’t you think so? I trust we understand each other. Adept.”  
The man swallowed. Nodded.

The limousine arrowed down the nearly-empty highway. In the back, Dmitri lay across the seats, his head in Lilith’s lap. Lilith ran a hand absently through his hair. “You know, Dmitri, you scare me a little. What you did to those men. I saw…”  
“We are who we are,” he said. “Sometimes we have to stop making up stories. Accept facts. Even the ugly ones.” He closed his eyes, let the purr of the limousine’s engine and the gentle sway of the seats lull him towards sleep. Almost. “What do you think ComStar wants with an expert in body doubles?”  
“I don’t know, that’s the scary thing. Think, what other organization has access to the rulers of every single house? At least we know they have him. And they know we know. Not the best outcome, but not the worst.”  
“Par for the course for me,” he murmured wearily. “I’ve been told I’m not that good.”  
“But pretty good.”  
“Casablanca,” he said after a while. “Bergman to my Bogart?”  
She was silent a moment, then cupped his face, and placed a long, lingering kiss on his cheek. He felt her breath on his neck, her lips brushing his ear.  
“Ilsa,” she said. “My real name is Ilsa.”  
He remembered every detail of the drive.


End file.
